


When The Rain Falls

by Marcellebelle



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Animal Abuse, Big Brother Jean Havoc, But mostly angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Childhood Trauma, Dark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fever, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Alphonse Elric, Hurt Edward Elric, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Parent-Child Relationship, Parental Gracia Hughes, Parental Jean Havoc, Parental Maes Hughes, Parental Riza Hawkeye, Parental Roy Mustang, Paternal Roy Mustang, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Protective Riza Hawkeye, Protective Roy Mustang, Psychological Trauma, Sick Character, Sick Edward Elric, Sickfic, Team Mustang - Freeform, Team as Family, Unreliable Narrator, because they're all either children or traumatized or both, everyone is a parent to these children, parental team mustang, sort of but not all that obvious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23722678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcellebelle/pseuds/Marcellebelle
Summary: Colonel Roy Mustang has two problems: Edward and Alphonse Elric.*On short hiatus as the current chapters are being revised*
Relationships: Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric & Maes Hughes, Alphonse Elric & Riza Hawkeye, Alphonse Elric & Roy Mustang, Edward Elric & Maes Hughes, Edward Elric & Riza Hawkeye, Edward Elric & Roy Mustang, Maes Hughes & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang
Comments: 155
Kudos: 467





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Something I think I should clarify is that though I have set this story pretty firmly in the Brotherhood universe, and you do not need to have watched the 2003 anime, some aspects of the early 2003 anime still apply. 
> 
> For example, Al and Ed meet Maes and Gracia age 11 and 12, and they are there when Elicia is born. But the train incident did not happen, and they have not met Nina yet and the Tuckers had nothing to do with Ed passing the alchemy exam. 
> 
> The 2003 Barry the Chopper incident has not happened yet either, and I am on the fence about whether it even will in this AU, since I want to stick closely to Brotherhood canon. As per Brotherhood canon, Roy has nothing to do with the deaths of Winry's parents. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

He very nearly missed the call.

It was late; later than he usually stayed at the office, but he had a backlog of paperwork, courtesy of the twelve-year old child he’d taken upon himself to recruit-- on some kind of hair-brained, ludicrous whim, no doubt, because _really,_ he didn't have the _time_ for this-- into the military. It was an action he was beginning to _heavily_ regret as he signed yet another form detailing the expenses in damages to be paid to the latest underdeveloped, backwater village the Fullmetal Alchemist had succeeded in razing to the ground. 

Sure there were benefits, particularly pertaining to his career, but Roy hadn’t understood exactly what it entailed to be credited in discovering the prodigal, young alchemic genius that was the mind and soul of Edward Elric-- because while the boy’s achievements had brought him favour amongst the senior officers of the military, it also meant that any and all issues, monetary or otherwise, incurred as a direct or indirect result of the kid’s dalliances were passed to him as ‘his responsibility’ without a second thought.

He sighed, pen scratching against the military issued documents, trying to convince himself that this had all been worth it. The twelve-year-old had already single-handedly destroyed three local landmarks, one _national_ _monument_ , and half a dozen houses in the _six months_ he’d been employed.

Six months.

In the last three alone, the kid had been hospitalised no less than four times. His stomach twisted uncomfortably as he remembered the pale, tiny body swathed in starched, scratchy blankets.

The youngest academy recruits often came from difficult backgrounds and so a necessary law had been passed: custody of a minor within the military would be assigned to his or her immediate superior. In Elric's case the duty fell directly to him, Colonel Roy Mustang, a title far too imposing for his latest _vocation_ as childminder. He was sure the hospital staff now recognised him on sight, with the number of hours he'd spent pacing the bleached-white corridors.

He purposely did not think about the fact that had he not recruited Edward, the boy wouldn’t have been injured at all. 

He refused to think this, because he also refused to admit, even to himself, that his motivation for enrolling the boy into the military was _soft--_ because in truth, he could never have looked into the deadened eyes of the small child stuffed into the adult-sized wheelchair, or gazed upon the even smaller child trapped behind an impenetrable wall of metal, and just done _nothing._

No, Edward Elric was a burdensome responsibility with which he had saddled himself, under the guise of altruism, to further his goal of making it to the top.

That was all.

He was so entrenched in his own mind that he didn’t notice the office phone ringing until it was almost too late, and he lunged for the receiver bringing it to his ear with a grimace as he glanced at the time. “Roy Mustang speaking,” he barked, because the clock had been ticking well into the early hours of the morning, and whoever was on the other end of the phone better have a _really_ good reason for even being _awake_ to bother him,let alone be calling him on his work line--

“Colonel?”

He nearly dropped the phone. Of course it was the kid. Of course. “Fullmetal,” he ground out, not quite managing to hide his impatience. “I presume this absolutely cannot wait until tomorrow morning?”

There was a breathy sob at the end of the line, childlike, and completely uncharacteristic of his young subordinate, and all his frustration drained in an instant. His chest constricted, momentary shock making his own breathing stutter. He clamped down the sudden unease, taking a few measured breaths. Something had to be very, _very_ wrong if Edward Elric, a boy who’d lost two limbs and then got back up and dragged himself through hell just to be able to _walk_ again, had been reduced to tears.

“Fullmetal,” calm, steady, that was it. Allowing the kid to hear his own panic wasn't an option. “Report. Tell me what's going on.”

The child coughed harshly, a sound that sent a shiver down his spine. Even over the phone he was able to hear the telltale signs of pneumonia settling into the boy’s chest. What had happened? He glanced out the window, at the heavy rain that fell in sheets, splattering onto the tiled pavement below. “Fullmetal,” he coaxed, when the twelve-year-old didn’t reply. _Didn’t or couldn’t?_ The thought made bile rise up in his throat, and he hastily swallowed. _Stay calm, goddamn it._ “Where are you? Major, report.” 

“They--” the kid sounded like he was _choking_. “Colonel, they’ve got Al!” he coughed again, longer and more drawn out, and Roy was left to grapple for some sense of composure amongst the swirling fear that had crept into the corners of his mind, because from what he’d gathered, based on the severely limited amount of information he’d managed to garner from the boy, he now had two major problems: 

One, his child subordinate was coughing his lungs out, clearly in need of medical attention, or at the very least the presence of an _adult,_ who could appropriately assess the kid’s condition, and--

Two, another even younger child, a civilian no less, was in some kind of trouble, though the scale of the danger was still unknown to Roy. The fact that the child’s vessel was a giant suit of armour was only slightly reassuring, because at least the boy couldn't come to any _physical_ harm. He hoped. It was a small comfort.

He decided to solve problem one first. They wouldn't be able find Al if the only witness to his disappearance dropped dead in an alley. 

“Fullmetal,” he allowed some of the anxiety he was feeling into his tone, under the guise of impatience. “I told you to report your location-- or has your tiny brain shrivelled so much that you can’t remember basic instruction--”

“Who’re you calling so small they can’t-- can’t--” The boy was suddenly wheezing, gasping for breath as he tried to yell, but couldn’t. That-- that wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all. He’d hoped the insult would anger the kid enough to snap him out of whatever panicked state he’d been in, and it _had_ , but when the trade-off was the harsh breathing he could hear on the other end of the line, too loud and crackly to be any shade of healthy, he couldn’t believe he’d misjudged so badly. It was too late for this; he couldn’t keep his thoughts straight when he was this tired.

_Are you_ really _that exhausted, or have you lost your head because it's Ed and Al?_ An internal voice that sounded _far too similar_ to his First Lieutenant mused. 

_Shut up,_ he told himself fiercely. Out loud, he said: “Just breathe, Fullmetal.”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” the kid snapped at him, albeit more quietly than before, probably from the fear of triggering another horrendous coughing fit.

His efforts were in vain.

Roy was subjected to what sounded like the worst one yet, followed by a terrible retching which had to be nothing short of _painful._ “Don’t talk, Fullmetal,” he choked out, as the retching tapered into whimpers, panic seizing his heart with a vice-like grip. “No, wait, _do_ talk. I need to know where you are, kid." He cursed himself; if the kid hadn’t heard the fear in his voice before, he no doubt knew all about it now. What was he _thinking,_ slipping up like this? Where was the level-headed stoicism he’d so carefully nurtured for situations _exactly like this one?_

“Colonel?” the child’s voice shook. Damn, he sounded so _scared._

And wait, was that…? Oh god, the tears were back.

“It’s okay, Edward,” he soothed, abandoning the title in favour of the child’s name. “Come on, just tell me where you are, and I can come and get you.” 

Between shuddering coughs and wheezing breaths, the kid managed to gasp out a street name, and the words “telephone box”-- of course, because where else could he be calling from, save the dorms? 

After hurried promises to get there as quickly as he could, Roy hung up. He paused for a moment, trying to remember the location of the street Edward had named. It was-- it was actually far closer to the Hughes' apartment than the offices, and the kid needed someone there _fast._

He grabbed the phone again, dialling the number he knew off by heart, and waiting, heart thumping erratically, for the man to _pick the damn thing up--_

“Roy?” Maes sounded half asleep, though there was a note of concern in his tone. “It’s two in the morning, why are you still at the office--?”

“Maes!” He barked sharply, not bothering to hide his panic this time. “I need you to get to--” he glanced at the address he’d scrawled on the papers he was meant to be signing. “Dunston Road-- it's the turning just before yours if you’re driving from the direction of the office. Check the telephone box, I’ll meet you there.” He slammed the phone in his hand back onto the receiver, effectively cutting short any questions his long-standing friend would have. Maes would go, he knew, without any context, and would get there far more quickly than he’d be able to.

The drive felt like it stretched for hours, though it surely hadn’t been longer than ten minutes in reality. The heavy rain did not relent, but instead worsened ‘till he could barely see through the windscreen-- so much so that he almost missed the street and had to reverse, before he found himself driving past a red telephone box with two figures, one noticeably smaller than the other, huddled inside. He swerved to the side of the road, coming to a stop as the larger of the two took hold of the other and bodily lifted them up, running out into the torrent of water and climbing straight into the back of Roy’s car, arms still clutching that precious, precious bundle.

The man’s eyes met his own in the rear view mirror, his countenance grim. He wasn’t wearing a coat, but didn’t seem all that damp. Roy surmised that he probably _had_ been, and that the garment must be what was now wrapped around the shivering shoulders of the child being settled into the adjacent seat. “What’s going on?” Maes whispered, working his hands up and down the boy’s trembling back in a frantic attempt to warm him. “Where’s Alphonse?”

“I don’t know.” Roy felt helplessly inadequate in that moment, because who the hell manages to _lose_ a suit of armour? Especially one containing such a precious cargo-- and make no mistake, this loss was _his_ loss. He wasn’t one to shirk responsibility, and in the end it had been him who’d left two preteen children to their own devices. His culpability was crushing.

“He’s gone.” 

Roy turned sharply in his seat, catching the golden eyes with his own as he stared at the boy. “What do you mean by that, Edward?”

“They took him, he’s gone.” The child coughed again, harsh and heaving, wrapping his own arms around his chest as though through that very action he might be able to keep himself from falling apart. “They _took_ him.”

“Who took him, Ed?” Maes eased the kid upright as the coughs had him doubling over, his ministrations gentle. He pushed the boy’s damp fringe-- wet with rain or sweat, Roy did not know-- away from his forehead. “He’s running a fever, Roy,” the man’s voice was controlled, but the concern etched across his face belied his measured tone.

“I don’t know.” Edward started to shake. “I don’t know-- I didn’t _see,_ they knocked me out... _Colonel--”_

“Okay,” Maes soothed. “Okay, Ed. We’ll find him-- we're going to take you to my apartment, okay?” he didn’t wait for a response, but nodded to Roy, who took it as a cue to start driving.

“I want to come with you!” The boy’s glower was obstinate, as he glared at the seat in front of him. “Take me with you to find Al!”

_"Absolutely not,”_ Roy tried to soften his tone, he really did, but seeing Maes’ sharp glance in the mirror, he thought perhaps he hadn’t managed it. “You’re not well, Edward. You won't be of any help right now. We need to make sure you're somewhere safe, and when we do you _will stay put_ \-- and that’s an order,” he added hastily, seeing the child’s mouth open again. 

Edward slumped back against the seat. He went shock white, as though the exertion of verbally challenging Roy had proved too much for him, before his eyes rolled back into his head.

Maes cursed. “Drive faster,” he ordered, as though _he_ were the superior officer.

Roy thought he might vomit.

Instead, he stepped on the accelerator.


	2. Chapter 2

Gracia’s expression when she answered the door would have been nothing short of comical, had it not been for the severity of the situation. Her mouth fell open in shock as she stared at the little blond burden in Maes’ arms, and she whispered a faint: “Oh _my,”_ before hastily ushering the three of them into the warmth of his friend’s apartment.

“Set him down on the sofa,” she spoke to her husband as she hurried towards the living room, clearing the couch of cushions, save for a large one, which she batted a few times with her hand, placing it against the armrest. “I’ll fetch a blanket for the poor thing. You don’t think he’ll object to borrowing some of my pyjamas, do you? He’s soaked.”

“I don’t think he’s going to object to anything right now,” Roy muttered grimly, watching as Maes gently placed Edward down, the couch near dwarfing the twelve-year-old. Wearing women’s clothing wouldn’t do much for the child’s pride, but he was sure it would be a darn sight more comfortable for the kid than the sopping garments that clung to his spindly limbs like a second skin.

The boy was still shivering, even in sleep. His face was pallid, his breathing harsh and uneven, and Roy swallowed as he made his way over, pulling his coat from his own shoulders and tucking it around the drenched child. He settled onto the edge of the sofa, feeling nauseous as he took stock of his subordinate’s condition in full. Had they made a mistake? Should they have taken Edward to a hospital? The longer he stared at the boy, the more unsure he felt about Maes’ previous assessment. He had enough basic medical training to know how quickly a fever could take a turn for the worse, especially-- _especially_ in children, and _God,_ the kid wasn’t even into his _teens_ yet.

“Roy.”

His panicked thoughts were halted by a hand on his shoulder, and he turned sharply, glancing up at his friend with an unease he could see reflected in the other's green eyes. It wasn’t a position he liked to envision himself in, the guardian of a sick child, and the trepidation that had rooted itself into the pit of his stomach was unsettling-- but Maes was a new father, and this scenario had to be amongst the older man’s worst nightmares. 

“Gracia brought the clothes,” His friend spoke soothingly, perhaps afraid the boy might detect any panic even as he slept. “She’ll come back with the medicine once we’ve dressed him.”

How long had he been sitting there? Had he really been so lost in thought that he hadn’t noticed the woman enter? 

The situation was getting to him in a way it shouldn’t have been. As an officer he couldn’t afford to lose his head, no matter the circumstances. If Fullmetal had been injured on the battlefield, rather than in a suburban neighbourhood, he might have had no choice but to leave the child. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of emotional attachment, and yet it seemed to be a weakness he could never rid himself of. If his carefully constructed façade slipped in front of the wrong person, those he loved the most would be used to destroy him, and it was this that made him question, on his darkest nights whether the rat race he was running was truly worth it.

But Maes was someone he could trust with the lives of those he cared for most, and it was Maes who, on his darkest nights, kept his mind in one piece, with whispered assurances and his absolute and indomitable faith in Roy. Maes always had his back, even when he was trying to carry the world. He would be forever grateful to his friend; if there ever came a time that he was no longer around--

It didn't bear thinking about.

He inclined his head, keeping his own voice low even as he spoke decisively. “Let’s be quick about it.”

Within minutes the soaked clothes were discarded, and the boy was dressed in fleecy pyjamas that engulfed his tiny frame. Roy had haphazardly thrown a blanket over the kid, and was about to reach for another when his friend caught his arm, shaking his head.

“He’s feverish,” Maes murmured. “We can’t let him overheat.”

Roy didn’t argue. His own way of dealing with illness involved bundling himself in anything and everything he could find, before sleeping for two days straight and emerging from his nest of blankets as shaky as a new born foal. It was hardly healthy-- but he was an adult, his body could handle the strain. He was sure that, after the copious parenting books his friend had read in a panicked haze sometime between Gracia’s sixth and her final months of pregnancy, Maes was far more qualified than he was to make any kind of judgement regarding the health of a twelve-year-old child. 

Gracia returned, carrying a tray which held a bottle of liquid fever-reducer, a teaspoon and an old, mercury thermometer. Roy took a moment to examine the glass, checking for cracks that could give leave to the poisonous substance within. Satisfied, he placed it back on the tray carefully.

“Wake him,” he turned to Maes. “Find out what you can about Alphonse-- when he disappeared, _where_ it was--” he paused. “Fullmetal said he was taken by someone. Any kind of description would be helpful right now.” It was momentarily harder than usual, to pull himself back into the mindset of a commander-- but he’d always been good at suppressing his fears. Sealing his emotions away until they became nothing but the brush of a second thought was a trait he both coveted and abhorred. It had both saved his life and damned his soul, in the blood soaked sands of Ishval.

Now, though, it was necessary, and with Alphonse Elric’s little life hanging in the balance, he fell into the familiar role without reservation. 

He had to.

He was already halfway to the phone, when Maes spoke up, his voice deceptively casual as he asked: “The usual crowd, Colonel?”

Roy didn’t bother to turn around, already dialling the number he knew by heart. He held the receiver to his ear, as he answered the man. “Just them, yes.”

His breath caught in his throat as he heard the woman’s voice on the other end, already professional, with only the faintest remnants of sleep colouring her clear tone. “Lieutenant Colonel? Is everything alright?”

“Mustang speaking,” he spoke with a level of calmness he didn’t feel. “Wake everyone-- I’ll brief you all in my office in an hour.”

There was a beat of silence and then, “Sir?” A request for an explanation-- and really, she deserved one.

How secure was the line? He didn’t know. There were too many unknowns in this situation-- perhaps the strangest of all being the target of the kidnapping. It sounded like the abductors had Fullmetal within their grasp, from what the child had gasped out in his fever-ridden state, (and God knew how many enemies the boy had already managed to make, but he was quietly convinced that the number had passed double digits a month ago) and had still decided to discard him for his quiet, unobtrusive, civilian little brother.

It was strange enough that Roy had made the executive decision not to involve the rest of the military, at least for now. The first seventy-two hours of a kidnapping were crucial in finding the abductee alive, or indeed in even finding them at all, and if his men could locate the kid before that time ran out, the entire ordeal could be neatly swept under the rug, away from prying eyes and sticky fingers. 

If it couldn’t be, if the military found out, there was every chance the state of the children’s bodies-- or worse, the transmutation that had torn them, _quite literally,_ limb from limb-- would be discovered, and that would remove them from Roy’s jurisdiction, from his _protection,_ and he wouldn’t be able to do a _damn thing_ about it--

No. There was no telephone line secure enough for this. 

“My office, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”

“Understood, Sir.” 

He hung up, sudden exhaustion taking over as he sighed. He needed one moment-- just _one moment_ to _process_ this--

And then Maes was cursing, and the kid was intermittently sobbing between bouts of violent hacking, and he had the pleasant thought that perhaps the phrase ‘and everything went to hell’ was contrived solely in consideration of the terror known as Edward Elric. 

* * *

“Edward,” a woman’s voice, gentle in tone, murmured, a distant whisper that he couldn’t help but struggle towards, though his limbs were still bound by the crushing weight of sleep. “Edward, honey, it's time to wake up,” a soft hand stroked his hair, brushing it away from his face.

For a moment, he let himself believe his mother was here with him. Alive and well. Living and breathing.

Just for a moment. 

But there was something wrong, wasn’t there? He could feel it's all too real presence, something sorely out of place and heavy in it’s awkwardness, and it hurt-- as though a piece of his heart had been taken from his chest and hollowed out, and then put back upside-down and empty--

_Cold._ He was _cold._

“Edward,” whoever was speaking to him was becoming more insistent, though the gentle warmth in their tone did not subside. Vague recognition sparked within him, and with it came a sense of trust. _Safe._ She’s _safe._ “Sweetheart, we need you to open your eyes. I know you’re not feeling well, but--”

It felt like his eyelids were weighted under a hundred bricks as dim light flooded his vision. Everything around him seemed muted, as though the fog in his brain was seeping out into the world around him, blunting the colours and thickening the air he was struggling to draw into his lungs. Everything-- _everything_ was hurting, with an ache that went deep into his bones, that permeated every fibre of his being.

“Oh, you’re awake!” the woman sounded relieved, and he looked up, catching sight of brown hair and soft green eyes, before his vision began to darken again.

Mum?

A cold metal spoon was pressed against his lips, and he instinctively turned his head away, self-preservation kicking in as his sleep-addled mind tried to make sense of his strange, new surroundings. His heart rate quickened, and he pulled away from the hands that were reaching, grasping, _pulling_ at him, and he cried out in sudden terror, and then he choked, and suddenly he was coughing and coughing and he couldn’t stop and it _hurt_ and he couldn’t _breathe--_

A glass was pressed against his lips. “Drink, Fullmetal,” the new voice was familiar-- low and firm. A hand, calloused and larger than the first, grasped his chin with a steady grip when he tried to pull away, holding his head in place. “It’s only water, kid.”

He pressed his lips together, something strange hammering at his heart, the beat off-kilter with every shudder wracking his aching body.

“Open your eyes,” the voice demanded. “Come on, now.”

He wondered when he’d closed them again, and he fought the heaviness that pulled him down, down, down. The light blinded him once more, just for a second, and then he was staring at dark eyes and dark hair, a figure in military blue on their knees beside Ed--

Mustang. 

_Colonel Bastard._

He opened his mouth, drinking greedily as Mustang hesitantly tipped the glass, the cool liquid soothing his throat, his convulsions turning to tremors. The water was pulled away then, all too soon in his opinion, and was replaced by the same spoon as before.

“It’s medicine,” the man spoke quietly. He was staring at the twelve-year-old with an odd kind of scrutiny, his expression oscillating between concern, and an exhausted weariness that Ed agreed with entirely. “For the fever.”

He opened his mouth, swallowing the sickly sweet syrup with as much of a grimace he could muster, before the words Mustang had spoken sunk in through the thick fog surrounding him.

A fever?

“I’m sick?” He didn’t mean for it to come out so-- so _frightened,_ but he was suddenly, unnervingly aware of how much he was hurting. His aching, _heavy_ head was being entirely supported by Mustang’s hand, and he found he couldn’t lift it, or pull away. Each breath tore at his throat as though he were inhaling hot flames, and he thought for the first time that perhaps it wasn’t that the air was too thick, but that his lungs _weren’t working properly._

“Yeah, Ed,” Mustang was staring at him with-- with uncertainty? Ed wasn’t sure. The look was wiped from the Colonel’s face abruptly, replaced with something gentle and _soft._ Colonel Bastard didn’t do Soft, he didn’t do Gentle, and he definitely didn’t stare at Ed as though he thought the boy would shatter in front of him.

If he was-- if he was really that sick, then where... where was...?

“Al?” he croaked, numb fear weighing heavily in his gut. He fought the sudden urge to throw up. “Colonel, where’s Al?”

Mustang’s face took on a pinched look, a darkness suddenly present in his already black eyes. It was the same expression he’d worn in Resembool, the first time they’d met, and Ed recalled being afraid of it, back then. Now though, it just served to accentuate the man’s clear exhaustion. “What do you remember?” The words were spoken with a kind of forced calm that made dread pool in the pit of the twelve-year-old's stomach.

Al. Where was--

The night came flooding back, memories assaulting him with a gale-force he hadn’t thought possible.

_No._

“No,” he choked, his vision suddenly cloudy as salt water burned his eyes, as he _remembered--_

“Edward--”

“No,” he sobbed. “They’ve got him, Colonel! They’ve--”

“Edward,” another figure, dressed in civilian clothes, knelt beside Mustang. Hughes. That made sense-- because Hughes had been there, Hughes had _found him_ , and-- and-- the woman earlier had been Gracia, not his mum-- and that made sense, because Al had been taken, and Hughes had found him, and Mustang had been there too-- “Edward, kiddo, we need to know what you remember--”

“They’ve got Al,” he gasped, because wasn’t that more important right now? “They’ve got Al, Hughes, they took him. They _took him!”_

“Who took him?” Hughes was leaning forward, an intensity to his gaze that Ed had never seen before. “Did you see what they looked like?”

“I-- I don’t...” Why did it matter? Al was gone, why did it matter what they looked like when Al was--

“Fullmetal.” Mustang’s tone was sharp. Ed met his gaze, acutely aware that his head was still cradled in the Colonel’s grasp, the gentle grip a stark contrast to the firmness in the man’s voice.

“They’ve got him,” the twelve-year-old whispered.

“We’ll get him back,” Mustang’s expression softened. “I promise, Ed. But you need to tell us what happened.”

Ed closed his eyes. “They--” he swallowed, remembering, terror churning at his stomach. “There was a car.”

“What colour?” Hughes had produced a notepad and a pen, already scribbling something on the paper.

“Black, I think, but-- but it was dark out so...”

“Did you get the number plate?” Mustang didn’t sound too optimistic.

Ed would have snapped if he’d had the energy. “It was dark out.” His chest ached, and he couldn’t tell if it was the illness or his missing little brother that was causing the pain. A few more tears slipped out, and it was all he could do not to bawl.

“Edward...” Hughes hesitated, as though trying to find the right words. “Could you start from the beginning? Like you’re telling us a story?”

They were trying to help, he knew that. He knew he was making it more difficult for them, knew time really was of the essence, but it was all muddled up in his head. Mustang was making vague shushing noises, an attempt at comfort, because he had started crying for real, and-- and when had that happened?

He screwed his eyes shut. He had to try. For Al. Al was relying on him to not mess this up-- and that was really what it came down to, wasn’t it? His little brother was missing, and he was the only witness.

“They took us both,” his voice trembled as he spoke. “It was both of us at first--”

And his memories became words, tumbling, panicked and tremulous, into the silence of the early morning hours. 


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s just this way, Brother,” Al’s hulking form pointed towards the shadowed alley. There was barely any light to see by, even in the open streets, and though Ed had never been afraid of the dark, there was something ominous about the wall of black squeezed between the four-storey townhouses.

He scowled, smothering a cough as he dithered by the entrance. “You better be right about this, Al.”

“I saw them in there earlier,” Al’s voice had taken on a stubbornness that he knew from experience was impossible to argue with. “A crate of them, abandoned. It’s meant to rain tonight, we can’t just leave them there!” Despite the armour, Ed could almost see the tears in Al’s green-gold eyes, the tenacious set of his jaw, and the juvenile way his lower lip would stick out when he didn’t get his way.

Adults used to smile fondly when Al made that face-- he’d had that kind of effect on people. Even now, it didn’t take long for them to grasp that he really was a child; his tone and his youthful exuberance giving the game away almost immediately. It was a realisation that tended to produce a mixture of reactions, from genuine surprise and confusion, to mocking insults and discriminatory slurs that filled Ed with destructive rage. It wasn’t Al’s fault he looked like he did, but people saw what they wanted to see. They only heard the child’s voice, at odds with his height and size. They never saw the hurt, or heard the tearless sobs. Ed thought that if they did, they wouldn’t say those things anymore.

“I didn’t say we should,” he grouched, still staring at the entrance in front of them. “But why didn’t you just take them when we were there the first time?” He couldn’t bring himself to take that first step. He wasn’t _afraid._ He was the Fullmetal Alchemist-- the youngest State Alchemist _ever--_ but the way the darkness seemed to swallow the soft glow of the street lamps didn't sit right with him. Just a few steps in and they'd be immersed in the pitch black, left completely blind and, well, _vulnerable,_ and every instinct he had within him was telling him to _turn around, go home, leave,_ but he couldn't. He couldn't leave Al.

“I was going to,” his brother reproached. “But then you picked a fight with that police officer.”

_“He_ picked a fight with _me,”_ Ed sniffed haughtily. “Besides I outrank him--”

“You’re not even in the same _division,_ and-- and he didn’t actually start it, he just--”

“What he said to you, Al,” Ed looked up. The red pinpricks of light shining from his brother’s helmet gleamed in the darkness. There was no emotion in them, no hint that anything was wrong, but he was willing to bet that Al was crying, somewhere in there. His brother was strong, but Ed knew that crying didn’t make someone weak. It just meant they were hurt.

And Al was hurting.

“That’s as good as starting it,” the twelve-year-old continued. “You know that,” he coughed again, wincing as it ripped at his raw throat. 

Al was quiet. “Are you sick, Brother?”

“No. I’ve already told you a bunch of times that I’m not.”

“But you’re coughing--”

“It’s just my throat,” Ed shrugged, glancing up at his brother with a look that he hoped came across as reassuring rather than pained. “I feel fine otherwise; it’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

Al seemed to hesitate, before finally mumbling. “If you’re sure, Brother.” 

“I’m _sure_ ,” Ed scowled.

Al didn’t reply, but gave his brother a look that, in that moment, could have meant anything. He turned pointedly, walking into the darkness as if it was nothing, because he’d always been the braver one; the first to push himself, to try new things, to accept change. Oh, Ed had always had more natural talent when it came to alchemy, but Al had managed to make up for it with sheer force of will, and a determination that burned brighter than the sun. He'd been that way since they were both just children, with golden eyes and shining souls.

(As though they weren’t still. As though _Al_ wasn’t a child. As though he wasn’t still just a little boy.)

(But maybe-- maybe they’d seen too many horrors. Or perhaps they’d _been_ that horror-- their actions so irredeemable that they _weren’t_ children anymore-- and could they even be considered _human?)_

The darkness was almost overwhelming, but Ed had to follow him-- not because of pride, or anything so ridiculous (though maybe a little, because he was still the elder of the two, and that _meant_ something) but because his little brother had just walked down a dark alley at night, by himself, and what sort of sibling would Ed be if he turned tail and fled?

He could hear the sounds of Al’s armored feet against the cobbled stone of the road, but he couldn’t see his brother. It set his teeth on edge, a shiver of uncertainty running down his spine. It didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be afraid. He’d been down these streets at night before, broken the curfew Mustang had set him more times than he could count--

Because, really, a _curfew?_ Who did the Colonel think he was? It wasn’t like the man expected Ed to adhere to it while he was trekking across the country on those stupid missions the Bastard probably made up on the spot, but the moment he set one toe in Central, Mustang expected him to heel like, like--

Like a _dog._

He’d once even made the mistake of asking _why,_ and had been rewarded with the irritating and vague response of: “Because you’re under my command, Fullmetal.”

“So is the Lieutenant,” he’d snapped. “You don’t give _her_ a curfew.”

“We’re not having this discussion, Edward.” The finality in Mustang’s tone had ended the conversation there.

Ed scoffed, kicking at the stones beneath his feet. A sharp edge caught the sole of his boot, and he could feel the rock pressing against his toe when he fell, his automail clanking loudly as it connected with the wall. The sudden noise was loud, ricocheting off the brick walls and shattering the oppressive stillness that had seemed almost tangible in the coolness of the night air.

He pushed himself up quickly, shaking off the pain in his foot with a practised ease. He’d had worse. “I’m okay, Al!” he called out. “Just tripped, is all,” his words echoed in the silence around him-- the silence that stretched for a second, and then two, and then three... “Al?”

Nothing.

Something wasn’t right.Al wouldn’t just ignore him-- he’d never given anyone the silent treatment, even as a small child. There might as well have been a tiny halo floating above the boy’s head, for all the pettiness he was capable of.

And-- and the _absolute quiet. That_ was wrong. Ed could no longer hear his brother’s thudding footsteps. At some point they’d stopped, and he’d been so caught up in his stupid head, that he didn’t even know when.

“Have-- have you found them, Al?” his voice trembled even as he raised it.

No response. 

Ed moved faster. The alley was cold and dark and a little bit frightening, but there had to be an end _somewhere--_ it couldn’t go on forever. He just hoped Al had found it. His breathing became laboured, and he had the urge to cough. _Not now, not now._ He forced it down, struggling to drag enough air into his spasming lungs as he stumbled into a run.

And then there was light, illuminating the alley with pale lines as though the moon had stripes, elongated along the pathway before fading out and merging with the shadows. No sign of Al, but a _gate,_ and Ed almost crashed into it with relief, because Al must have--

His heart sank.

The gate was locked. He couldn’t pull it open, even using the strength of his automail arm. He could transmute it-- it looked like iron, and if it wasn’t iron it was steel. So long as he knew its basic composition, he was sure he’d be able to break the lock, but, but--

Al couldn’t do that without a circle, and there weren’t any scratched into the walls. The cobbles were too bumpy and rough-- and though perhaps technically it would be possible to draw there, the lines of the circle would have to be calculated based on the width and height of the raised stones, and that would take days for any _ordinary_ alchemist to achieve, and still, hours for his genius sibling. So Ed didn’t check the pathway. There were no transmutation marks on the metal of the gate, that he could _see_ anyway, in the faint light that flickered balefully as clouds passed overhead.

_But he must have been here,_ Ed’s mind whirred. _There’s nowhere else to go. But he’s not here now._

_He’s gone._

Ed turned in a slow circle, scanning what little he could see intently, his insides suddenly cold.

People didn’t just _disappear. Al_ didn’t just _disappear._

There was nothing. The alley was empty, and he’d hit a dead end. The gate was tall and spiked and though he supposed Al could have climbed over, he didn’t think he would have. Not without telling Ed, at least--

And then his heart leapt into his throat.

Because he’d _heard_ something.

There was a dizzying pounding in his head as his back hit the wall, and he forced himself to take deep breaths. He stared into the darkness again, trying to make out any kind of shape, any kind of movement that could hint to the presence of another person, but all he could see were the same shadows cast by the gate’s bars and the moon’s pale light. A few harsh coughs ripped from his chest, burning his lungs. Had it hurt that much before?

He didn’t have time to dwell on it.

He couldn't _see_ anything, but the noise was still there, faint and high pitched. He had to strain to hear it, and at first he _couldn’t_ tell where it was coming from, but then-- but _then--_

Tucked into the shadows, just beyond where the tendrils of silver could reach, he could make out the faint square outline of… of _something._

He fell to his knees, reaching out and grasping. It was a wooden crate, perhaps a foot and half wide and another foot deep. It was closed, and it had an odd weight to it-- he’d felt it as he was pulling-- off balance and heavy, and, and _mewling._

He unlatched the lid with trembling fingers and threw the lid open.

His heart stopped.

Five tiny, squirming kittens, shivering in their wooden cradle, so young they couldn’t open their eyes; so skinny he wasn't sure if they’d been fed since birth. No wonder Al had wanted to come back-- _no wonder._

Al wouldn’t have left them a second time. Not like this. 

So Al hadn’t found them. He wouldn’t have just _gone_ without searching for them either, and they weren’t _that_ well hidden, even amongst the shadows--

_Something_ had _prevented_ his brother from looking for them. 

_He had to get help._

Ed lifted the crate as he stood, holding it awkwardly against his chest. It was difficult, not because of the weight, but because his arms couldn’t wrap fully around it. He’d take it with him, find a payphone-- he had change in his pocket-- and _get help_ , because this was _weird_ and _frightening_ and he had _no idea what to do._ The fights he got into on missions were loud and brutal, consisting of blood and broken bones and horrified audiences. He was brash and uncooperative and _rude,_ and so he’d always been the one targeted. Al, with his hulking body and gentle demeanour didn’t incite the same rage in their opponents that Ed managed to achieve-- and it was _better_ that way.

Al had never been _taken_ before.

The silence was suffocating. There was nobody around. Ed had never felt so alone, nor so afraid that he might _not_ be.

He’d taken just one step when he heard it: the clicking of a lock, the gate swinging open behind him.

He tried to run. He _tried._

But he was still a kid; his legs were too short to outmatch a grown adult, and the box was digging painfully into his ribs. He was grabbed from behind-- and he couldn’t clap, couldn’t do anything but scream, because he was holding those five little lives in his arms-- and then the crate was torn from him, cast onto the floor, and he could see one of the babies tumble out onto the ground. He was pinned against the wall by two men dressed entirely in black, his flesh arm pressed against the bricks with a bruising force. He pushed with his automail, but-- but they were _still_ stronger, and he _couldn’t move._

“Let me go!” he found his voice as he thrashed against their hold. “You _bastards,_ let me _go!”_

“Be _quiet_ you little brat,” the man holding his automail hissed. 

Ed snarled.

Somebody laughed.

A third man stepped forward, dressed exactly the same as the other two. His face was covered, and only his eyes were showing. They were pale grey-- wintery and sharp in hue, and the look in them wasn’t kind. “So you’re the brother, then,” he directed the statement towards Ed.

The twelve-year-old struggled harder. “Where is he?” he shouted, his voice cracking with anger as tears pooled in his eyes. _“Where is--”_

Something was shoved in his mouth and he choked. The third man was suddenly directly in front of him, knotting whatever it was around the back of his head. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t, and he realised with a mounting horror that _he’d been gagged._

The tears spilled over, burning his cheeks and soaking the gauze pressed against his teeth.

The man took a step back, casting his eyes disdainfully to where the crate had landed, catching sight of the fuzzy little creature that had fallen out and was now clinging to life on the cold stones. 

He lifted his boot, bringing it down heavily on the kitten’s head. When he moved away, the ground was covered in blood.

“We might as well take him too,” the man spoke to the one holding Ed’s left arm. “The boss’ll want him.”

There was a sharp pain in Ed’s neck a second later.

The shadows swallowed him.

* * *

When he awoke he felt like he was still dreaming.

There was a movement he recognised, a soft shaking so maybe… maybe a car? He didn’t know. He couldn’t open his eyes; they were jammed shut and he wasn’t sure he cared. He just wanted to sleep again.

There were voices though, angry and raised, shattering the soft calm.

“He doesn’t want the little one,” the words were filled with rage. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck.”_

The movement stopped.

_Someone_ seized hold of him, dragged him from his slumber, and he found himself pressed harshly against sodden concrete.

He sighed. The fuzziness inside his head wouldn’t let up, and he wished he could sleep again. He was _tired,_ weary to the bone with sticky eyelids and leaden limbs. He felt as though he could float away; perhaps he _would--_

_“Brother!”_

That-- that _voice._

_Al._

His eyes shot open and he lifted his head to stare down the barrel of a gun. 

The man holding it flinched. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck no, I ain’t killing a little kid.”

“Brother!”

Ed turned towards the voice. His little brother’s red eyes stared at him through the tinted window of a car. He was chained, the metal wrapping around his armoured shoulders and chest plate, keeping him bound.

He was _chained._ Like an _animal._

The twelve-year-old choked around the gauze still stuffed into his mouth, reaching towards the door handle-- 

“I’m sorry kid,” the gunman lifted the weapon and then brought it down.

There was a cracking noise, and then _pain,_ and then--

* * *

He opened his eyes to rain.

He was soaked and-- and _freezing._ Icy water fell from the sky in torrents, draping over his body like sheets. There was water in his nose, in his eyes, in his _mouth--_

There was something in his mouth. Sodden against his tongue and teeth, dripping down his throat. He pulled at it, tugging at the tie behind his head with his automail hand because the fingers of his flesh one were numb. When he was finally free he gulped fresh air, tried to pull it deep into his lungs, and found he couldn’t, because-- because it felt like there were _weights_ on his chest, and he started to cough, wet and raw, and he couldn’t stop.

_He couldn’t stop._

Where _was_ he? What was going _on?_

_Where’s Al?_ His thoughts clamoured. _Al, Al, Al._

Al, his little brother, wasn’t with him. He was alone. The night sky was pitch black, with thunderclouds blanketing the moon and stars. The only light came from the soft glow of a street lamp, reflected in the shimmering puddles in muted gold.

If only he could remember.

There was something wrong. He _knew_ there was, but his head was heavy and aching, and he was coughing and spluttering and shivering, and everything seemed to spin each time he blinked.

_"A crate of them, abandoned!"_

The memory came to him suddenly and abruptly. Al's voice rang clear in his head, desperate and pleading.

Of course. The kittens. Al had been going on about them all day. They’d gone to rescue them, hadn’t they?

Only--

_Bloodied fur, smeared over jagged cobblestones._

He retched into the gutter, bile and swallowed rainwater pooling beneath him, only to be washed away an instant later. He pressed a hand to his head, nails digging into his scalp as though he were trying to tear the images from his own mind.

_"Brother!"_

_Al, bound and chained, crying out to him._

Ed staggered to his feet, almost choking on his own vomit as he began coughing again. 

He needed _help._ He-- he needed--

_Mustang._

His head swam as he spun, trying desperately to see more than a few feet away through the downpour and fog. The dizziness intensified with the movement, and he nearly threw up again. He was close to giving up, to pounding on some poor civilian's front door, to _begging_ \-- at the very least, the military police would be called-- but they-- they wouldn't be able to help _Al._

But what was the alternative? There was nothing else to do-- not when he could hardly breathe for the heaving coughs that wracked his frame; not when he could barely _stand--_

And then he saw it.

There was a telephone box, maybe thirty yards along the street. It’s exterior had been painted a bright red, perhaps by an overzealous resident, but in the pouring rain the colour stood out like a dirty, chipped beacon of hope.

He stumbled towards it, gasping in harsh breaths of icy air and raindrops that burned at his aching chest and left him convulsively hacking. It felt like forever before he finally grasped the handle and _pulled,_ dragging himself inside the shelter. The air inside was musty and still, but it was _dry,_ and for a moment it was all he could do just to _breathe._

He’d had change, he remembered. Did he still? Had anything been taken from him? His pocket watch was still there, hidden away in his left trouser pocket, along with some snack wrappers from the previous morning, and, and--

_Thank god._

He closed his fist, triumphant, around the coins, pulling them out to count them. Enough for two calls, at least, though he only needed one. He hesitated, hand hovering over the dial, because _the number._ What _was it?_

Mustang had tried to drill it into him. _“You’re not leaving this room until you can repeat it verbatim, Fullmetal.”_

He punched in the numbers shakily, putting the phone to his ear as he coughed again, wet and crackling.

“Hello?” The military’s phone operator was a woman. “How can I help you?”

_“Mustang,”_ he choked-- he was shivering so violently that he could barely get the words out. “I n-need to speak t-to Mustang.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. A second ticked by, and then another, and then--

“Are you okay, honey?” the woman’s voice had softened considerably. “Are your parents there with you?”

_Of course._ He sounded like a terrified little kid, voice still unbroken, fear-filled and tremulous; she would treat him like one.

“No,” he rasped. "I need to s-speak to Mustang, it’s-- it's _important._ Just put m-me _through,”_ his breath caught, and he couldn’t help but cough again and again, and then he couldn’t _stop._

There was rustling on the other end of the line, and murmuring voices, and then the woman spoke again, her tone a practised calm. “Where are you sweetie? Why don’t you tell us and we can have someone over to help you.”

_No._ She was going to call an ambulance, and then he’d end up in hospital, and there would be doctors and tests and he’d have no way to contact Mustang-- he’d have no way to help _Al._

"J-just _wait_ ," Ed snapped, unable to temper the sudden flare of dislike he felt towards the military. It was moments like this that he despised their so called _protocol_ the most. Someone would end up dying one day because of their incompetence, he just _knew it._

He could only hope that person wouldn't be Al.

Had Mustang told him how to get through? He wouldn't have given Ed a number he couldn't use. There had to have been _something._ The twelve-year-old pushed through the fogginess in his head trying, _trying_ to remember, but he couldn’t. He didn’t-- 

_What were the words?_

_A long-suffering sigh. “At least write it down, Fullmetal.”_

His wallet. He reached into his right trouser leg this time, withdrawing the pocketbook the Colonel had forced him to keep, flipping it open and pulling out the wrinkled scrap of paper.

“R-red, gamma, rosehip, s-six, six, f-four,” he gasped the words, sinking to the floor of the phone box. “That’s m-my code, isn’t it? I’m Edward Elric, the-- the Fullmetal Alchemist--”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and more rustling that went on for what felt like an eternity before the woman began to speak again. Her words were suddenly unsure; her tone frazzled as she stuttered out: “My apologies Major Elric-- but are you sure you don’t need--”

“I’m _f-fine,”_ he gasped incredulously-- because wasn't his title enough? _“I just n-need to t-talk to Mustang.”_

There was hesitation, and then: “It’s unlikely he’ll still be in the office at this hour Major, perhaps you should--”

“Just try,” Ed pleaded, feeling dangerously close to tears. “Please, j-just try, I-- I’m _ordering_ you to.”

She was silent again, before finally, _finally--_ “I’ll connect you now, Sir.”

And then the phone was ringing, and then--

And then it _wasn’t._

“Colonel Mustang speaking,” the man’s stern baritone came through the speaker, tired and irritated and so very _done,_ but-- but he was _there._

“Colonel?” A trembling whisper, and Ed--

Ed began to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... where to start? 
> 
> I really struggled with this chapter, so I'm a little nervous to post it.
> 
> I feel like its a necessary one though.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you guys like the update.
> 
> **Trigger warning for a panic attack in this chapter.

Ed couldn't stop shaking.

He told them everything-- how Al had seen the kittens earlier that day and the dumb police officer. Hughes had made an odd noise in his throat when he’d spoken about _that,_ furiously scribbling in his notepad. 

Mustang didn’t even blink when Ed told him they’d broken his curfew, only interrupting gently to ask whether Ed could remember the _time_ he’d left the dorms. 

“Quarter to ten?” Ed whispered back, trembling. But he wasn’t sure-- _he wasn’t sure._ He was useless; the fog blanketing his thoughts thick and unyielding, his memories of the night fragmented. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

He couldn’t stop tears from spilling over as he recounted those five kittens in the crate-- the way they’d been torn from his arms-- how that grey-eyed man had _crushed_ that tiny, mewling creature beneath his heavy-set boot, blood coating the ground, oozing in rivulets between the jagged cobblestones, and-- and he hadn’t been able to scream or cry for help or _anything._ Hadn’t been able to save that tiny, helpless infant--

_Bloodied fur, smeared over--_

Oh God.

He retched, bringing up bile and spit and he was-- he was _cold,_ and his throat was _burning_ and he couldn’t stop _choking,_ because suddenly the air was too thick and the world was spinning and there were hands grasping at him and pulling and pushing until he was upright, leaning against something solid and warm. He began to bow over, unable to keep himself from falling and something-- _someone_ gripped his shoulders, holding him firmly in place even as he shuddered and heaved and hacked. He wheezed, trying to gasp for something-- _anything_ substantial-- but the tendrils of fog reached-- climbed-- _curled_ down his throat, grasping at his airways and squeezing _tight tight tight,_ and he couldn’t-- he couldn’t _breathe--_

“Take a deep breath,” a voice by his ear murmured. He recognized who it belonged to immediately. _Mustang--_ “Slowly, Ed. In and out.”

He couldn’t, he _couldn’t--_

“You can,” Mustang sounded far away, the words reverberating through Ed’s skull as though they were coming from the other end of a tunnel-- but his voice grounded the twelve-year-old like a _lifeline_ and he reached out, fighting against the leaden fogginess cloaking his vision. “You can, kid, come on. In for three, out for four.”

Three, four.

Three, four.

Three--

_The feeling of cloth pressing against his teeth--_

“Slowly,” Mustang repeated. “In for three, out for four.”

Three, four.

Hands clenched, trembling, _quaking--_

Three, four.

"That's it, kid. Keep going."

Three, four. 

and again--

and--

He was shuddering, sucking in tentative, shaking breaths, rasping: “I’m sorry”, when the air in his lungs felt a little more like thick syrup than tar. The world had stopped spinning, and the feeling was coming back into his fingers and he could finally _think._ He was suddenly, painfully aware of Mustang’s solid warmth beside him, of the man’s arm encircling his torso in a strange facsimile of a hug, and he swallowed, feeling something _ache_ inside his chest, because he couldn’t even _remember_ the last time he’d been held by someone other than Al. Before the transmutation certainly, before Mum died, before Dad _left--_ he _couldn’t remember--_

He shivered convulsively. He couldn’t think about that now-- couldn’t afford to become distracted.

_Al._

He'd lost his baby brother.

_Alphonse._

This was his only hope. He didn't _have_ a choice. Not really-- not if he ever wanted to see his brother again.

So he began to talk once more, in chokes and gasps and trembles. He could see the crease across Hughes’ forehead deepen, could feel Mustang stiffen at his back as whimpers tumbled from his lips-- could feel the horror rise up within _himself_ as he uttered the damning words. He already knew how the story ended, but his fear was as real as though he were reliving it for a second time. In a way, perhaps he was.

Some parts were worse than others.

“They _gagged_ you?” Hughes looked nauseated.

Mustang took a sharp breath, his arm tightening momentarily around Ed’s shoulders. “And after that?” He sounded _angry._ It wasn’t at all like the arguments they’d had in the office, which were marked by frustration and an infuriating undercurrent of amusement on the Colonel's part. This anger was something else, and somehow-- somehow it felt _real._

For a moment, Ed understood why people might be afraid of him.

He closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “They injected me with something and I don’t-- I don’t really remember anything until the car.”

“They-- they _injected--_ ” Mustang’s tone was incredulous, and though Ed couldn’t see his face, he was sure the man wore a similar expression. _“Maes.”_

“I know,” Hughes sounded like he was about to be sick. Ed wasn’t really willing to open his eyes to find out. A bone-deep tiredness settled over him, and he felt himself being pulled under, barely able to fight the waves of exhaustion weighting his thoughts, dragging him _down, down, down--_

Someone tapped his cheek. 

“No sleeping, Ed,” Hughes was smiling at him as he blinked hazily. “Ah, there you are. Almost done, kiddo.”

It was an assumption on the man’s part, but not an entirely incorrect one. There wasn’t much more to say: a description of the car, of the man who’d held a gun to his head. He pushed through, only choking up a little when it came to the way Al had been chained. 

_Like an animal. Like he wasn’t human, the sick bastards._

“We’ll get him back,” Mustang muttered, pushing errant strands of Ed’s hair away from where they clung to his damp cheeks. “It’ll be okay, kid.”

“Yeah,” Ed coughed hoarsely. “I know,” he swiped at his nose, the remnants of the tears he’d shed fading as he pressed his face into Mustang’s blue uniform jacket. 

He didn’t move, even as he spoke of how he’d woken: sick and cold and alone. He told them about the phone booth, and the operator who wouldn’t let him get through. Military codes were stupid. The military was stupid and dumb, and he made sure Mustang knew it.

He finished with dry eyes.

Mustang lowered him gently to the couch again, pulling on his coat, and gesturing for Hughes to do the same before murmuring something to the other man briefly. Hughes nodded, kneeling and tucking the blanket around Ed, wrapping it around him like he might an infant and lifting him up into his arms. 

Ed was unable to push him away, unable to do anything other than rest his head against the Lieutenant Colonel’s shoulder. “I thought I couldn’t go with you,” he whispered, his voice raw and ragged. He coughed and then coughed some more and spent a few minutes gasping for breath as Hughes gently rubbed his back.

“Change of plans, kiddo,” the man's voice was light-- and there was something so terribly _tender_ in his words-- as though he thought Ed to be _fragile,_ and on a different day, the twelve-year-old would have been _mortified,_ but, _well_ \-- “Don’t you think a blow to the head _kinda_ warrants a hospital visit?”

“But-- but what about Al?” Panic rose within Ed, and he grasped at the man’s lapel. “You can’t-- you _can’t,_ you have to _find him._ I’m not-- I’m not _important--”_

“Hey now,” Hughes scolded, an uncharacteristic sharpness to his tone as he glanced down at the boy in his arms. “You’re plenty important, kid-- and there are more than enough of us to look after you _and_ find Alphonse.”

_That_ didn’t make sense.

Ed let out a sob and clutched at the man’s coat. “It should’ve been _me.”_

_“Kid--”_ Hughes began, but was interrupted by Mustang’s sharp words:

“No _time,_ Maes.”

Hughes adjusted the blanket so it was covering Ed's shoulders. "Gotcha. Kid," he glanced down, his warm green eyes serious as they caught hold of Ed's own, golden gaze. "This isn't over, okay?"

He didn't wait for a reply-- but then again, Ed was too exhausted to muddle through what the man had just said-- before they were moving. His stomach churned from the sudden lurching. He swallowed and buried his face in Hughes’ shoulder and tried very hard not to throw up.

“No!” he choked out, when the Lieutenant Colonel tried to leave him in the backseat. “N-n-no!” he reached out, grasping the man’s sleeve when he pulled away.

“It’s better if you’re lying down, Ed,” the man murmured, smiling reassuringly, though there was a sheen in his eyes that looked suspiciously like tears. “Come on now, let me buckle you in. You can get some sleep this way.”

Ed turned away, closing his own eyes as the Lieutenant Colonel helped him to lie down flat across the backseat and swallowing down the anxiety that had settled into his stomach like a rock. He didn’t want to be alone-- _he didn’t want Hughes to leave._

He fell asleep anyway, fever burning through his body like a furnace, the air around him thick and heavy as he dragged it kicking and screaming into his lungs. 

He didn’t dream.

* * *

Roy was vaguely aware that he was driving like a madman, if only for the odd, wheezing noises Maes had taken to making each time he turned a corner just a little _too_ sharply. The man was gripping the edge of his seat with white fists, sparing a glance every so often to the half-dozing child, swathed in blankets yet _still_ shivering, strapped firmly into the backseat of the car.

His heart was hammering and his stomach churned; a mixture of fear and dull rage pulsing through his veins in a storm of adrenaline and utter fury.

_Injected._

Fuck.

The entire tale had been sordid-- right from the get go, when the kid had described, almost indecipherably between sobs, a grown man, a _police officer_ no less, belittling an eleven year old; verbally assaulting the boy using words most children his age wouldn’t have had _any_ exposure to before, let alone have _understood._

And Edward had been so goddamn _close_ to having his head blown clean off. If the gunman had been just a little less compassionate… if he could even be called _that,_ hitting a little boy over the head with enough force to knock the child out--

Roy’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. 

He wasn’t a stranger to depravity; rather, his familiarity had been cultivated (not born; he’d been raised in a _brothel_ after all) through the line of work he was in. Granted, as a Colonel he wasn’t required to involve himself personally with the majority of the cases that passed by his desk, but he’d had to work hard for his rank, and it had taken a lot more than sitting around pushing paper. Exposing countless drug and human trafficking rings operating at the heart of Central’s seedy underbelly had been amongst his many assignments as a Major, fresh from the blood and the burning-- _because every time he closed his eyes he could see the pyre--_ of Ishval. Somewhere along the line, between the fire and the drug busts and hostages, he’d stopped flinching away from the broken bodies of the victims; stopped having to force himself to look the survivors in the eye. At some point, offering a hand to them had become easy. Perhaps this was a mark of his own broken mind; humanity was _supposed_ to recoil from darkness, to automatically reach for the light. It wasn’t natural to hang around in the pit of it-- but they deserved to be listened to, those poor, discarded people. They deserved to be treated as _citizens;_ not just as a symptom of the inherent corruption that _civilised (and oh, how Roy despised that word)_ society liked to pretend didn’t exist.

He’d done his best to avoid sending the kid in to deal with _those_ kinds of cases, though they still crossed his desk with varying frequency. His team had a reputation for working well under pressure, and though it was a reputation that they themselves had carefully cultivated, it did mean that the missions they were handed brought them far closer to the darkness and grit of corruption than any of them were comfortable with. Whenever such cases reached his office, he found the brothers a mission as far away from Central as possible. He’d overheard Edward complaining more than once about the number of false leads they’d been sent after, but he’d rather be a source of the kid’s irritation than the one to expose him to the worst of humanity. 

Not that it mattered now. In just one night, any shred of innocence still left in that bright, young mind had been irrevocably shattered. 

He was sure that, objectively, the boy had experienced worse. Beyond the initial questioning, he’d never asked his subordinate directly about the botched attempt to resurrect his mother-- but he knew enough about human transmutation and the effect it had on the two boys that he was certain it had been painful, perhaps even excruciating. Their loss was overwhelmingly visible-- a stark reminder of how far down the wrong path those children had been allowed to travel. How many people had looked at them and then turned away? How many had seen that they needed help and then talked themselves out of intervening? They must have felt so desperately alone,to seek to bring back the one person they felt _would_ be there for them. 

_(He hadn’t turned away. He’d offered a leg up, and he knew he’d continue to do so, because he wasn’t going to be like the others. He wasn’t going to fail those children, not when so many before him had.)_

But there was a difference between the absence of good and the presence of evil. Roy was intimately acquainted with _that_ particular concept; had both perpetrated and defended against horrors caused by the darkness entrenched within society-- within _humanity._ Though the world had beaten the boys black and blue, he’d done his best to shield them from experiencing the depravity humans were capable of. He’d _tried--_ but it hadn’t been good enough. _He_ hadn’t been good enough. He remembered how hollow the kid had sounded, recounting trauma after trauma; how _frightened_ the boy had been during that fateful phone call and how he’d clung to Maes as the man carried him into the car for the second time that night. 

Roy had tried to protect them from this but he’d dropped the ball, and now two children were suffering for it. He’d attempted to swallow down the self-loathing, to let it resurface at a more appropriate time, bottle of whiskey in hand, but even that was proving more challenging than usual. 

The only thing holding him together was the swaddled twelve-year-old strapped into the backseat, flushed and shivering, and breaking into harsh coughing fits every few minutes that had Roy nervously checking the rear-view mirror to make sure the kid was still breathing. 

By the time they arrived at headquarters, he’d almost pulled over three times.

Maes was out of the car in a flash, and Roy wound down his window, leaning out of it as his friend crossed over to the paved walkway.

“Who do you need?” Maes asked quietly, his green eyes flickering to the bundle of blankets in the back.

“Havoc.”

Maes raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Interesting choice.” 

He’d probably been expecting him to ask for Lieutenant Hawkeye.

Roy scowled at the insinuation. “Just get him down here, would you?”

“Manners, Roy,” Maes shook his head, a hint of a smile playing at his lips despite the seriousness of the situation. “I’ll consider this an order from a superior officer.”

“As you should,” Roy allowed the jab with a roll of his eyes. “Keep me updated on the situation. I’ll need to be informed if you’re making any major decisions,” decisions like informing the rest of the military, he meant. They were good, Roy and his men, at saying things without really _saying_ them. They’d been running a long con on the military, from _inside_ the military, for far too long already; would be playing that game for some time. It was a path laden with risk, no end in sight, the chains binding them an unfathomable mess, but they were too far in to up and quit. They were all that was left; _their country’s only hope--_

“Of course,” Maes placed a hand on the roof of the car, leaning a little closer as he murmured. “How do I reach you?” _How are we hiding this?_

“Payphone. Ask for Havoc.”

His friend’s eyes widened, comprehension suddenly clear within them as he straightened, his hand snapping up in mock-salute and his words dry: “Yes, Sir.”

It was only when Maes had disappeared through the main gate that Roy allowed himself to sigh, giving the rear-view mirror another quick glance. The kid was asleep, at least, though his face was still flushed with fever, minute shivers wracking his small form. 

The kid. 

It was a little _too_ easy to look at Fullmetal and see a tiny adult, with the child’s coarse language and alchemic genius. It was less easy to see _Edward_ that way, shivering and frightened and clinging to his commanding officer.

The guilt churned his stomach, crushing his windpipe like a lead weight. 

What had he honestly expected, when he’d chosen to lead a child into this hell? Had he even considered that it might end up like this?

He was so fucking culpable.

They all were.

He pressed his head against the steering wheel, the smooth leather cooling his aching temple. He didn’t close his eyes though, not willing to risk falling asleep-- he couldn’t afford to, not with a sick kid in the back of his car. Maes had made that very clear. Sick children were _not_ to be left alone, and god, what if something _happened--_

No. He shouldn't think that way; it wasn't going to do _anyone_ any good if he worked himself up. He had to stay calm-- he should be able to do that much, at the very least.

Besides, Havoc would be arriving any moment. Roy wasn't sure if he’d ever been as eager to see his second lieutenant as he was at that moment. He’d chosen him to accompany them in part because the man was a qualified field medic and, well, the kid lying prone in the backseat _really_ fucking needed a medic.

He leaned back in the plush seat and turned his heavy gaze to the gates of headquarters, settling in to wait as precious minutes ticked by. The road became a river, the slick black tar glittering ominously in the faint moonlight that shone down in patches, illuminating the fog and brightening the world in an eerie glow.

The sky rumbled threateningly.

Roy watched the rain fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse Mustang's language, he's had a long day. 
> 
> I'm honestly not sure about this one, it turned into something similar to a character study on Mustang's behalf, and Ed's POV was difficult to write, considering I had to keep the story cohesive whilst maintaining his fevered, fragmented thinking.
> 
> I'll try to get the next chapter out a little sooner. 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you guys liked it! Feel free to let me know if there's anything in need of improving/ fixing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said I was going to try to update this next chapter more quickly but I've had Uni deadlines and the time has just run away with me. I hope you guys enjoy it anyway! :-)

It was dark. Dark and silent, except for the harsh clanging of steel against his gauntlet. He worked tirelessly, though he knew it to be in vain; the chains that bound him were stronger, thicker, heavier than his armoured vessel. It was his own body that was becoming dented, even fractured in one instance, but he couldn’t-- _wouldn’t--_ stop. Not yet at the very least, because to cease his attempts to escape would be the equivalent of giving up.

He wasn't ready to do that.

He didn’t know where he was, having no light to go by-- though from the darkness the room was probably below ground level, or at the very least windowless. If he were in his original body, he might have been able to smell the slight dampness or feel the biting chill indicative of underground places. Perhaps he’d have been small enough to slip out of the cuffs, or figure out a way to escape. He might have been able to do _something._ But there was nothing he could do except fruitlessly struggle in the pervasive lightlessness, listening to the percussive rattle of his armour. The silence was stretching out, lonely and unwelcoming, and he couldn’t take it. It was one thing to be deprived of three of his senses, it was another to be deprived of all of them.

Al wished he could cry. He called out to the darkness, tearless voice trembling. He didn’t know if his captors were ignoring him, or there was just no one else around to hear him. He didn’t know what he’d do if he were left here alone. He didn’t know if he'd be able to _do_ anything. There was no body to slowly wither away and starve. He could be here forever, blanketed in darkness, an endless existence with only his own thoughts for company. The nights were always the hardest, but at least they ended.

This, though--

He didn’t know how long he’d been here. It could have been hours, it could have been days. His sense of time was useless: he had no bodily functions to speak of, no need to sleep or to eat. Without external stimuli, he was unable to mark the passage of time with any modicum of accuracy, and the uncertainty and fear ate at him, quickly and without remorse. He was _frightened,_ and he wished, momentarily, sudden and severe shame burning through him, that he wasn't alone.

How could he ask for another to suffer through this?

Perhaps he truly _was_ a monster. 

At the very least, he was glad Ed had been allowed to live; thankful for the sliver of compassion the gunman had shown, that the man hadn’t shot his brother. Ed was still human, mostly; still flesh and blood, still _breakable._ When they’d found out Al was empty inside they’d been curious but hadn’t bothered physically harming him, perhaps realizing there would have been no use to it. Instead they’d kept him chained, alone and in the dark. He doubted they’d even known how torturous he would find it until he’d panicked and started to scream-- _please come back, no please, please--_ and was that the reason they’d left him for so long?

He wondered if Ed had been able to find help. The force of the blow had stunned Al. Watching his brother keel over like a rag doll was one of the most terrifying things he’d ever witnessed. It wasn’t uncommon for Ed to get hurt on missions, but it was usually minor injuries, such as cuts that required stitching and on one occasion a fractured wrist. He’d never seen him collapse like that before.

He wasn’t sure Ed would be _able_ to walk away from something like that unscathed.

He hoped though; he could only hope his brother had woken up, that he’d managed to call for help, that there was somebody _there_ for him. They didn’t really have anyone but each other, but maybe-- _maybe_ there would be _someone_ there for Ed. 

Because if not-- if he _died_ here, Ed would be left all alone.

Al knew Ed blamed himself entirely for the loss of his younger brother’s body. He understood it, in a way. The idea had been his brother's and it was Ed’s alchemical genius that got them as far as they did. Ed was the elder by almost a year and a half. Ed _should_ have known better.

But…

But so should've Al.

Equivalent Exchange. The first rule of alchemy, and it made sense in the worst way possible. 

Because _Al_ was the one who had lost both his body and soul to the transmutation-- and because Al had whispered _something,_ the very evening before Ed had asked him, golden eyes burning and words ablaze, if he'd wanted to _try._ We could _try,_ Ed had said. _I won't let you down, Al._

_I wish Mama would come back,_ Al remembered saying. _Brother, I wish Mama would come back to us._

He could still remember seeing the determination in his brother’s gaze, before the soft flames flickering in the hearth had lulled him into a restless sleep.

Because Ed had performed human transmutation for Al.

But Al had done it for their mama.

The balance had tipped. The transmutation became Al's. It was his love that powered the circle, his own overwhelming longing for his mama that brought him to the edge of something so evil he'd never be able to forgive himself. The outcome wasn’t an _equal split_ between them because the desire to bring back their mother had never been equal in the first place. Not really. Al had been selfish, and Ed--

Ed had just wanted to save his little brother.

So Al paid more. His toll was higher. Equivalent exchange in the most brutal of ways.

He’d never told Ed his theory; too afraid to bring it up, that it might be refuted or shot down in a blaze of righteous indignation, but now he wished more than ever that he’d had the strength to tell his older brother-- because if he _did_ die here, Ed would forever believe that it was his own fault, and that-- Al wasn’t okay with that.

He could make peace with his own death-- he was already halfway there, after all. He wasn’t even sure he _could_ call himself alive. The seven signs of life: movement, respiration, sensitivity, growth, excretion, reproduction and nutrition; all characteristics which determine whether an organism can be classified as being alive. Of these seven characteristics, Al possessed _two,_ and even then, his sensitivity to the environment was severely limited. Losing his life wouldn’t really be losing all that much, not in the grand scheme of things; not when there wasn’t much of a life there to begin with. So he wouldn't mind dying all that much, as long as it was peaceful. 

But Ed would suffer immeasurably, if Al were to leave him alone in this life, and that was unacceptable.

He wondered vaguely where his soul would go if he did die-- would he be reunited with his body, wherever that was? What happened to the soul once it's vessel was destroyed? He’d long since accepted the existence of the soul as a separate entity to the physical body, his very presence was proof of that, but the idea of an afterlife felt cheap to him; a collection of souls, stored up in one place, and for _what?_ It didn’t make _sense_ \-- after all, if there truly _was_ a place where the souls of the dead all conglomerated, shouldn’t the transmutation have worked? Human transmutation hinged on two suppositions: the first being the existence of the soul, and the second the _permanence_ of the soul. Supposing that the soul itself is able to die-- in the process of resurrection, would the product even be the original mind or a just a well-made imitation?

Was _he_ just an imitation, led to believe in his false existence? Or perhaps his soul _hadn't_ been destroyed, in those few moments before Ed sacrificed his arm to save him. If that was true, did that speak for the permanence of souls, or had his brother simply reacted quickly enough before Al's soul truly had the chance to die?

He didn't know. Perhaps he never would. 

A noise jolted him from his thoughts, harsh in the deafening silence; a faint _clop-clop-clopping,_ the sound of shoes on stone. If he had lungs he would have sucked in a breath. Someone-- _there was someone there._ He was suddenly alert, fear clinging like tendrils to his thoughts, invading every space. If he had a heart it would be racing, beating faster than his whirring mind. He might be shaking, as the adrenaline coursed through his veins.

Instead, he was still, the armoured vessel utterly unaffected by his tumultuous thoughts.

A click-- the sound of a key turning in a lock, and then--

Light fizzled to life, shining brightly into his red pin-prick eyes but he didn’t flinch; he didn’t have pupils: there was no concept of too light or too dark, his vision needed no time to adjust.

A man stood before him; a gas lantern held loosely in one hand and a set of keys in the other. He wasn’t wearing a mask this time, and Al could see his entire face; narrow and pointed, with sharp features and wintry grey eyes. He stared at Al with a cold expression and spoke in heavily accented Amestrian: “You are _empty.”_ His tone was accusatory and his eyes glinted cruelly, a hint of mocking in his frosty gaze.

Al didn’t-- _couldn’t_ respond, terror seizing his mind, coiling around his thoughts the way a python might ensnare its next meal. He couldn’t even swallow down the rising panic; couldn’t slow his breaths or try to steady his racing pulse for he had neither lungs nor a heart. All he could feel was a deep, indomitable dread, and a wish for someone-- _anyone_ to take him away from here. He wanted Ed. He wanted Granny and Winry and their little house in Resembool. He’d even take Teacher’s wrath over this; would listen to a million of her furious rants on the _dangers of alchemic experimentation_ if he could only leave this place, if he could _go home._ Even-- even _Daddy,_ wherever he was. They hadn’t heard from him in so long, but maybe-- maybe if he found out that Al was _missing,_ he might come back for them. He was their _dad,_ and didn’t that mean something? Shouldn’t it-- shouldn’t it mean _something?_

The man was moving forward, clearly not expecting an answer, sinking to his knees on the stretch of floor that would have been just within Al’s reach, had he not been chained. He rapped the armoured chest plate with his knuckles. “Empty,” he repeated. “There is nothing inside of you. I have the right words in Amestrian, yes?”

No matter how much Al fought against the bindings, it was useless. They were strong; thick metal chains, drilled and soldered into the stone wall behind him, and his captor knew that. The proximity was a taunt, meant to anger him most likely-- but how could he feel anger amidst the terror? Or were they trying to scare him? He didn’t know.

Perhaps he’d been silent for too long, because the man in front of him snapped something sharp in a language Al faintly recognised as Aerugonian. Both he and Ed had learnt a little, when they had taken it upon themselves to decode some ancient alchemical symbols from one of the books in their father’s collection. It wasn’t enough that he was able to understand the man, but the spoken language was distinctive, with funny shaped vowels that rolled the tongue and an odd lilt to the end of each sentence. 

“Tell me,” when the man finally spoke in Amestrian; his irate glare had softened ever so slightly. “What reason does Amestris have, to create weapons such as yourself?”

“Weapons?” Al whispered, something like horror slowly unfurling in the back of his mind. “You-- you think I’m a weapon?”

“You are alchemically created,” the man spoke matter-of-factly, with the confidence of one who has dabbled in alchemy himself. “You do not sleep. You do not eat or drink. You do not tire. Why would Amestris create such a thing, if not to weaponize it?”

Amestris.

And what was the language the man had been speaking? Aerugonian?

Al was aware of the border skirmishes between Amestris and Aerugo-- anyone with access to any kind of news source was, after all; the two neighbouring countries were constantly quarreling over the specific borders that marked their separation, and there was occasionally a small body count that accompanied that particular section in the newspapers but-- but he’d never thought it to be anything this _serious._ It had never been written as such-- they had _trade deals_ with Aerugo, wasn’t that what the papers had said? Why would Aerugo think Amestris had reason to weaponize anything against them?

“But--” he couldn’t _think._ Politics. He was _eleven._ He spent more time with books than with people. “But Aerugo isn’t-- it isn’t our enemy.”

The man looked amused. “We are not affiliated with the dynasty of Aerugo, child.” So he _did_ know. He did know that Al was a kid, and, well, didn’t that make this worse? 

“Then-- then why did you take _me?”_

“You’ve been priced,” the man said. “Title, Fullmetal Alchemist. Youngest State Alchemist in the history of Amestris.” He cut himself off, eyeing Al. “Things have changed, now that we have you.”

Human traffickers. Al shivered internally. If he'd had blood flowing through him, he was sure it would have run cold, trickling fear and anxiety and-- but-- but they weren’t after him, were they? They were after Ed, and that-- that made terrible, awful sense. They thought he _was_ Ed. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, but-- but if they found out he wasn’t his brother-- 

They’d go back for Ed. Ed didn’t have a suit of armour for a body. Ed wasn’t _Alphonse._

He couldn’t let that happen.

So he steeled himself, raising his red eyes to meet the other’s cold, grey gaze. “What do you want with me, then?” He asked. “You’ve heard so much about me, but you were still willing to sell me along. What’s changed?” 

The man’s face split slowly, a horrible smile taking form. 

Al’s soul trembled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO Al has been introduced. I hope I did him justice, he's an interesting character to write, especially since I feel he definitely sees himself differently to the way other characters see him.
> 
> I was so nervous to post this chapter. Though I say that every time. This one was particularly nerve wracking, for some reason. I hoped you liked it anyway, and I'll get the next chapter up as soon as I can. I feel bad for the lack of parental Roy in this chapter, but he'll definitely be present in the next one.


End file.
